


The Question of Ghosts

by arrow (esteefee)



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, Deathfic, Established Relationship, First Time, Ghost Sex, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-08
Updated: 2008-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 12:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It didn't matter, Fraser thought, if sometimes the flicker of Ray's reflection graced the curve of his water glass, or if Ray's distinctive outline wavered in the heat from the fire. It didn’t matter if Diefenbaker's eyes tracked a shadow Fraser couldn't see, a shadow that seemed to dance soundlessly across the uneven panels of wood that made the humble cabin's floor.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Question of Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: the fantastic [](http://nos4a2no9.livejournal.com/profile)[**nos4a2no9**](http://nos4a2no9.livejournal.com/), whose insight and suggestions proved invaluable.
> 
> Podfic [read by 2corbies](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/question-of-ghosts).

_But psychoanalysis has taught that the dead—a dead parent, for example—can be more alive for us, more powerful, more scary, than the living. It is the question of ghosts._

                                      —Jacques Derrida




  


It didn't matter, Fraser thought, if sometimes the flicker of Ray's reflection graced the curve of his water glass, or if Ray's distinctive outline wavered in the heat from the fire. It didn’t matter if Diefenbaker's eyes tracked a shadow Fraser couldn't see, a shadow that seemed to dance soundlessly across the uneven panels of wood that made the humble cabin's floor.

It didn't matter, really, because Fraser didn't need to be considered sane here. Not within the four walls of this cabin, and Ray's ghost never appeared at the detachment offices or out on the trail.

Truthfully, Fraser welcomed the flitting, hesitant reminders, even though they signified something more than a little awful—that Ray was somehow trapped in the borderland, unable to move on. Why should he be? He'd lived an honorable life, had died a noble and self-sacrificing death.

The son of a bitch.

Fraser's flashes of anger, though inappropriate, were entirely out of his control. He could only ride them out, distracting himself with questions— _why_ was Ray lingering? Did a justice remain undone?

Ray’s killers had already been dealt with—Fraser had seen to them himself, with Dief's vengeful assistance. He and Dief hunted down the two gunmen and delivered them into incarceration after first detouring to the nearest hospital. One man had taken Fraser's bullet and would never regain the use of his hand. Dief's sharp teeth had hamstrung the other before he could fire his shotgun—the murder weapon, as it later turned out.

As usual, Dief accepted Fraser's thanks for saving his life with a sniff and a demand for crullers.

After the trial, Fraser had arranged a transfer to Inuvik, where the long days held the familiar, comforting rhythms of childhood. He'd restored the cabin as best he could remember it, and hunkered there with his books and his writings.

And the teasing glimpses of Ray's ghost.

There were other odd signs beyond Fraser’s momentary hallucinations—times when he would find his bedding mussed up, his pillows piled into a fort. A stew left in the pot would be too peppery at lunch, even though it had been fine the night before. Once, he found the trap doors of all his red long johns had been carefully unbuttoned.

The evidence wasn't definitive, but Fraser, with a sense of foolishness, found himself speaking aloud to the air more and more—only when Dief was out of earshot, of course. He told Ray of his plans. The new woodshed was almost finished; the antique stove that Maggie was gifting him with was arriving in town tomorrow.

"Maggie would thank you, I know, but she's taken it so hard, Ray. She feels guilty that you saved her life at the cost of your own." Fraser was similarly conflicted. Maggie was the only family he'd had left.

Except for Ray.

A crackle from the fire jerked Fraser's attention, and he watched a large ember pop to the floorboard to glow there. It went out impossibly fast, as if smothered by a phantom boot.

"Thank you kindly," Fraser said.

///  
 _  
Notes from our Adventures, continued, "Ray the Hunter"_

_Though Ray never carried a pistol up north, he did have a rifle and a license to carry. He did most of the hunting on our adventure—he had a keen eye, when his glasses weren't fogged, and brought us snow hares and other small game, and occasionally a porcupine, which he made me dress, of course._

_Once, he killed a winter-woken bear that was threatening the dogs. I was off gathering wood, and it was over before I could shoe back to camp._

_Afterward, Ray discounted my panicked concern, saying the bear had been disoriented and was already half-dead from disease. It's true the bear had a matted pelt and was sick with sores, but laid out in the snow it was obviously a full-grown male, terrifying even in death because of its sheer size, not to mention those heavy claws and huge fangs._

_We were both keyed up on adrenaline afterward and had trouble going to sleep. Usually we slept in one tent, our sleeping bags head to toe so we wouldn't exhale moisture into the other's face. But that night we lay side by side. He told me stories, odd ones, of his childhood. How he'd once gotten a BB gun for his birthday, and at the party had accidentally shot the clown in the rear end._

_I didn't feel my own stories would be of interest to him, but he kept digging. So, I told him about the incident with the otter, and of the time June made Innusiq and me stand with apples as targets on our heads in her attempt to emulate William Tell._

_When her mother caught us, she paddled June so hard she had to carry a cushion to sit on for the next week. My father happened to be in town, and his only response was to pat me once on the head for my foolish bravery._

_But I digress. I meant to continue this record of my adventures with Ray, from our time together in Chicago to our journey across the Northwest Territories. It seems, though, instead of writing down particular instances of Ray's actions, I often get lost in reminiscences of what it meant to me to have Ray as my friend. He was so dear to me, in ways I never thought possible. I had no defense against his frankness, his persistence, his charm._

_He was charming. And I know he cared for me, though he chose to show it in unexpected ways. A slap on the back of the head when I had done something he deemed "stupid, but cute." When he was feeling especially fond he would play with my name, "Ben-ben, Benton-buddy, Frase-man, Fray of la Mancha."_

_Too, I noted what care he took of Diefenbaker, especially on the trip. He spent hours checking Dief's paws for frost-nip, petting through his coat and pulling out twigs and other detritus, keeping Dief's fur well-groomed so it would better protect him from the cold. I took these gestures to mean not just affection for my wolf, but for me._

_He cared for me. And I brought him here to be near me, and so, he died._

__

_(End Entry)_

__///

"Maggie will be returning to duty soon," Fraser said to the air, paraphrasing the letter in his hand. "Her arm and shoulder are almost fully recovered." There was more he didn't repeat, including Maggie’s chiding for Fraser's recent lack of communication. He'd made the mistake, in a strange fit of grief, of confessing his jealousy of her seeming closeness with Ray.

Her reply had been too gentle. _"Oh, Fraser. Didn't you know how it was?"_  
  
///

The nights were getting longer, and Fraser found he could leave the shutters open so the moonlight touched the edges of his feet. Dief snuffled in running dreams, paws twitching on the thick rug by Fraser's bedside.

Sleep was difficult for Fraser. There was no easy slide between waking and dreaming; instead, he was caught in the unforgiving borderland between, where all of his deep-seated fears were granted hard-edged reality. At times like those there was no relief from his innate existentialism. This was it, then. The days rolling by, cold and blank. He was merely a speck on an endless expanse of unbroken snow, and he would die someday, alone.

Always alone. If only Ray hadn't decided he could stop a shotgun blast with his body. Yes, Fraser should be grateful that Ray had protected Fraser's only family in his absence. Yes, Ray was a hero. A foolish one.

There was flicker in the dark corner, as a man lighting a match and then shielding the flame to light a cigarette. By the time Fraser blinked open his eyes, the glow had died.

Fraser spoke softly into the darkness. "Is it that you don't forgive me for not being there when it happened? Is that why you won't...?"

He fell asleep while waiting for a response.

///

Sometime in early spring Fraser stopped startling awake every night with the hopeless dread that Ray was still dying, was still gasping blood-mist into the frigid air with Fraser's hands pressed uselessly to his chest.

Fraser's anger started to fade. The more he wrote of their adventures together, the more he remembered, until the words streamed unhindered.

Then came a morning Fraser awoke refreshed, with an actual appetite for the wolverine stew Nancy Kingalok had pushed into his hands the night before, after Fraser had located her wayward sled dog and coaxed him home.

The stew was good. Fraser found himself eating two large servings. Having so much food in his belly made him conscious of how empty it had been for too long. He wasn't taking care. Ray would be disappointed in him. The thought startled Fraser into looking into the customary corner.

"I'm fine," he said.

There was a scratch at the door, and Fraser rose to let Dief in. He scraped out the rest of the stew into Dief's food bowl, and then put on his boots and went outside.

The day was warm. A low wind brought up the smell of budding spring and damp loam under melting snow. Fraser heard the scuff of a boot step, one, then two, and he followed the sound around the corner to the new woodshed.

 _"I don't get it,"_ Ray had said when he saw Fraser's plans, _"You won't build yourself a separate bedroom, but you'll make a house just to keep the wood all cozy?"_

The rough door was ajar and still moving slightly on its hinges.

Suddenly apprehensive, Fraser turned away and went back into the cabin.

///

_Notes, continued, "Mr. Instinct"_

_I suppose if this is to be a true chronicle of my days with Detective Ray Kowalski, it would not be complete unless I mention a certain day by the shore of the lake they call Michigan._

_Our partnership had been experiencing a certain friction—or, I should say, I believe I was causing Ray a great deal of irritation with my pedantic nature, and his usual reaction seemed to be "yanking my chain," as he called it, in order to engender a more emotional response than I was accustomed to giving._

_To this day I don't really recall what the final trigger was. Even before we ended up on the roof of the warehouse we'd been sniping at each other for days over nothing, or so I'd thought. It wasn't until I provoked him into striking me that I realized how deeply angry he was. What I had perceived as mere irritation revealed itself to be a true rage._

_Not surprisingly, my response was to turn and walk away. I've always felt it inappropriate to escalate into the physical during personal (not professional) confrontations._

_This, though, turned out to be the wrong response altogether, according to Ray. I think his punch was just a further way of goading me, in hopes that I would take his concerns more seriously, or in hopes, even, that I would reveal myself to be, at heart, the kind of physical bully he perceived me to be on the emotional plane._

_But I didn't want to hit him back. I was bewildered. I admit I was...hurt._

_Of course, I could never tell him that._

_  
(E.E.)_

__

_Don't you_

Fraser stared down at the page, at the two words he'd discovered written in a familiar hand below the end of his latest entry, and felt a chill. He didn't know how long he stood, frozen, the journal in his hand, before he felt the brush of Dief's tail and heard his impatient bark.

"I'm not daydreaming," Fraser snapped. "I'm...contemplating."

Dief whuffled his disgust at this prevarication, and nudged Fraser away from the table. Fraser closed the journal and dropped it, then went to pack his kit and put on his uniform. He was late for patrol.

The white sun hung high in a perfect field of blue. It was warm out, and before long Fraser removed his tunic and rolled up his sleeves. The jeep was misbehaving—Ron, the local mechanic, had wanted to keep it for some timing adjustments, but Fraser was planning on replacing the detachment's old vehicle for something more reliable and fuel-efficient. The familiar coughing knocks gave the trip a rhythm that lulled Fraser deeper into his thoughts.

The strange writing in his journal was the first real sign he wasn't in danger of losing the very last of his marbles. He tried fruitlessly to complete Ray's sentence. " _Don't you._..miss me?" Of course he did. Every pointless day of his existence. Ray must know that. " _Don't you_...have anything better to do?" Than write about their adventures, Fraser supposed. Ray probably thought it silly of him to attempt to immortalize their time together in that way.

It wasn't Ray that Fraser was trying to recapture, but who he was at that time. He'd felt alive in Chicago. He'd felt needed. Not that these people didn't need him—perhaps more than the citizens of Chicago ever had. He'd been an interloper there, a bright red eyesore, a strange figure for constant speculation. An escapee from the carnival's sideshow.

But not to Ray. Certainly, Ray had called him a freak, but always with a possessive affection, as if Fraser were his discovery, his proud contribution to a show-and-tell.

Fraser had enjoyed being Ray's pet freak.

///

Lucy Bompas' vendetta against the encroachment of Margaret Atwood's harebell patch had today resulted in a black eye (Lucy's) and a bloody nose (Miss Margaret's). The riot had expanded when a group of local teens betting on the action took offense at Fraser's interference before the final outcome could be decided.

When all parties had been duly chastised and sent away with ice packs, Fraser returned to the detachment headquarters to write up his report. Vonda, his civilian assistant, brought him a cup of coffee and the ever-present plate of biscuits. No matter how often he told her he didn't like to indulge in sweets, she always tried to foist some pastry on him, as if he were a child returning home after a tough day at school.

"I'm not hungry, but thank you kindly, Vonda."

"You never seem to be, no never," Vonda said in that strange way of hers. Her hair was a most alarming shade of steel blue-gray. "But I think you should eat some just the same, Constable Fraser. A man needs his treats, and you're looking real scrawny to my eye."

He nodded his thanks at the compliment and took one to be polite. He handed it off to Dief as soon as Vonda went back to her typing.

Fraser finished his report, being careful to note the details of the compromise they'd settled on. Lucy would picket her goat away from the harebell patch nine days out of ten. Failure to comply would lead to a feast of goat stew, so Fraser was confident Lucy would stay on the straight and narrow. He made copies of the agreement and reminded himself to drop them by on the way home.

Fortunately, he had an extended patrol this week, and it would be days before he returned there. Days in which he almost hoped Ray's ghost would lose patience with waiting, and move on.

At least, Fraser told himself that was his hope.

///

Four days later he stood at the doorway to his cabin for long moments before opening his door. Diefenbaker pushed past him impatiently and headed directly for the pantry area, apparently tired of field rations. Fraser averted his eyes from his desk as he went to fill Dief's bowl, but his peripheral vision still trapped an image of the journal, which again lay open on his desk.

He avoided it as long as he could. First, he started a fire in the wood stove, then put away all the staple items he'd brought from town. He took off his uniform. He opened all the windows and hung his blanket outside to freshen it, and changed the sheets on his bed. He unpacked his kit bag and put away his clean laundry. He prepared his dinner, fed Dief, and banked the fire.

Then he forced himself to walk over to his desk. When he looked down, he saw there were new words on the page. They registered without meaning.

  
                     _Don't you   think   I already   knew that, Frase?_

 __  
Fraser read the sentence again. And then he lifted his eyes to the end of his previous entry.

He crawled into bed and fell headlong into asleep.

///

A thump woke him next morning. It came from the wall beside his bed, the wall that abutted the new woodshed. Fraser got up and poked the fire, then washed up and ate breakfast.

He then sat at his desk and uncapped his pen.

_  
Notes, continued, "Partnership"_

_After our adventure with the "ghost ship" manned by gold thieves, my working relationship with Ray took a different turn. We had established a fragile understanding—we now recognized the value of the other's approach to problem-solving. Actually, I think I was the one who learned more from our brief schism than Ray, who always had a strong understanding of the emotional undercurrents between people._

_I know now he realized he'd hurt me by_

__Fraser looked down at the page, his new awareness of an audience to his thoughts making him helpless to continue. He bit his lip and struggled with his suddenly shaky pen.

He wrote, _Ray, I'm sorry I never told you_

 __Fraser scratched out the aborted sentence and wrote,

_Why are you still here? Do I need to do something? How can I help you to move on?_

__Dropping the pen, Fraser went outside to do his chores. He could chop wood, but then he would have to put it in the woodshed, and he felt oddly resistant to going in there.

Instead, he took his rifle and went hunting.

///

Fraser was lucky, and he and Dief tracked a male caribou and took it down in only a morning's effort. By the time he'd tagged and slaughtered the carcass and pulled the hide, he was exhausted; it had been a while since he'd brought down such big game.

He remembered the first time he'd shot a caribou, back when he'd thought it was a necessary rite of passage. Now, it was merely economics. The community insisted on forcing food on him, and since they wouldn't accept his money, he tried to barter back as much as he could with fresh meat.

The woodshed door was closed again, Fraser noticed as he packed the meat in the large cooler on that side of the cabin. He went inside and cleaned up at the kitchen pump. He was mentally apportioning the spoils when he heard a scraping sound, like that of a chair being pushed back.

Dief was still outside lounging hopefully by the cooler. Reluctantly, Fraser looked over at his desk. His pen was on the floor by the chair.

Fraser picked up the pen and looked down at his open journal.

  


_I'm not   going anywhere, dummy.   Not finished   with you yet._




Well, obviously. But even as Fraser muddled over what Ray meant, he was warmed by the familiar appellation. Proof, somehow, that Ray hadn't lost his inherent soul in crossing over. Although why he seemed to be having so much trouble manifesting himself fully was something Fraser dearly wished he could discuss with his father. Even if the idea of Ray then consulting with his father gave Fraser tremors of anticipated embarrassment.

Still, he'd gone from almost dreading Ray's missives to eagerly awaiting the next one. Which was progress, of a sort.

///

Fraser spent his day off delivering meat and socializing with his nominal neighbors. Carrie Fishman's daughter, Laurie, insisted on showing off the new litter of sled dogs, all proud descendents of the lead dog of Vern Halter's team, which had won the Yukon Quest.

Driving home, Fraser's jeep was redolent with the smells of dried pemmican and roasted coffee. He had sacks of barley and oats, and jars of canned fruit and vegetables, along with some fresh tomatoes from the Inuvik community hothouse.

And he had Darlee Watson's lipstick on his cheek, which he rubbed at irritably most of the way home. It felt like her overly social hello and goodbye kisses were embedded in his skin.

He did want to be touched. He wanted companionship. He wanted Ray's arm slung around his shoulder, the knock of Ray's hip as they walked too closely together. He yearned for the tension between them, scratchy and unfulfilling as it was. He wanted Ray.

God, how he wanted _Ray._

///

_I'm not   going anywhere, dummy.   Not finished   with you yet._

_Hey I'm getting good  at this. Now you   tell me  
_




Fraser laid his palm on the journal's page. Ray had touched this. If Ray could touch things...

Fraser suddenly found himself lurching back across the room, halted by the bed edging his leg. He sat down heavily and rested his head in his hands.

"Tell you what, Ray?" Fraser said shakily. "What is it you need from me? If I can't help you move on, why are you haunting me in particular? Not that I mind—" he hastened to add, "Stay as long as you like. Don't go. You don't ever have to go."

Dief chose that moment to come trundling in, his usual lope a waddle from all the treats he'd been slipped during their neighborhood rounds. He walked over to the desk and curled up next to the chair, right where someone's feet would be if they were sitting in it.

Then Dief rolled onto his back, offering his belly.

Fraser knew just how he felt.

///

Fraser's dreams that night were interrupted by thumps and scrapings coming from behind the wall. He thought he heard the sound of a power sander. Grunting irritably, Fraser turned over and fell back asleep. Some small noise woke him in the morning, and he immediately got up and went to the book.  


_I hope your not  just being polite. I hate it when you do that.  
Because we   finished with polite a long time ago, buddy.  
If you really want me to stay, you   have to_




Fraser spoke, his voice rough with sleep. "What? Damn it, Ray, what do I _do_?"

The end of the pen lifted, then dropped. Then again it rose, and fell, rolling to the table with a small clatter.

Fraser turned away. He needed to occupy his hands. He made breakfast, then let it sit uneaten on the stove while he stared down, tracking the tiny sounds of pen against paper. When the noises stopped, he turned and walked slowly back to his desk.

_Language, Fraser._




  


Fraser laughed hoarsely, until his eyes dropped to the next line.

_Tell me the truth._




  


///

  
The page was blank, as it had been for an hour, only the multiple marks of Fraser's pen nib dotting the top left corner.

Dief shifted at his feet, occasionally giving a whining yawn.

 _Ray_ , Fraser wrote finally, _I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry you had to give up so much just to be with me._

_I wish I could have given you more in return._

__Fraser's lantern fluttered, and he rubbed at his eyes once, then stood and carried it to the kitchen. He poured more oil into the reservoir, the fumes stinging his already irritated eyes.

He returned to his desk.

  


_Boy, you are one sorry s.o.b. I got what I wanted. Well almost._

_We're almost there. So tell me. Tell me, Fraser.  
_




A breath of air seemed to drift across the back of Fraser's neck. He could hear the hiss from the burning wick of the lamp, and the muffled thump of his own heartbeat. He picked up the pen.

  
 _I hated you for leaving me. I hated you. So much._

_Because I love you, Ray._

_  
_Damp splattered the page, the ink running in prismatic streaks before diffusing into pale blue. Fraser took a shuddering breath, and then heard the door to the cabin click open. Steps crunched outside and to the right, around to the side.

Toward the woodshed.

Fraser stood and walked numbly to the door. Diefenbaker rose drowsily and shook himself.

"I'll be back soon, Dief."

Dief gave a short whine and then barked.

"I'm sure he didn't mean to slight you. I would hazard it's difficult obtaining doughnuts in the afterlife."

It was dark and cool outside. Fraser took the lamp with him, uncertain of even such a short path when he felt so weak. The door to the woodshed was ajar, and there seemed to be a dim light within.

As he approached, he thought he could hear strains of music coming from inside. It sounded like _"_ String of Pearls," once his grandmother's favorite piece. A rush of nostalgia collided with the unreality of the situation, making him dizzy. He pushed open the door with one elbow, the lamp held high, and went inside.

He'd stepped into a ballroom. The golden wooden floor stretched out as far as his eye could see, and under the multicolored flickers of a sparkling mirror ball stood his partner.

Ray was dressed all in black, wearing a fitted shirt tucked into pleated trousers, black braces tugging the shirt tight against his chest. His hair glowed red and gold under the colored lights.

"Ray." Fraser's throat ached with relief and confusion and not a little fear. It was really Ray—Ray's cocky grin, Ray's dimpled cheek shadowed with scruff.

And Ray's voice, saying, "Hey. Welcome to wonderland, Alice." He waved toward Fraser, ushering him closer.

"Ray. God, Ray." Fraser set the lamp down and took a few shaky steps, and then unforgivably his legs gave out. His knees struck the smooth floor just as he heard Ray's startled exclamation and the rush of his footsteps. Then Ray's hands were on his shoulders, keeping him from toppling over completely.

"Easy there, Frase. Keep it together."

Clutching in a desperate breath, Fraser tried to make sense of it—Ray's hands were real, solid, gripping his shoulders. They moved to Fraser's head and sank into his hair, and a shudder roared through his body. He shook there, blinking furiously, until he could make out Ray's voice, the familiar, rough accent breaking through his confusion.

"'S all right, buddy. You're good. You're doing great. I know it's weird."

_Weird._

__"Never believed in this stuff myself, and you're more into the logic thing than I am. Guess we were both wrong, huh?"

Suppressing an urge to laugh in hysteria, Fraser shook his head, a base part of him reveling in the sensation of Ray's fingers sliding over his scalp in a rough petting.

"I know all about ghosts," Fraser mumbled shakily. "Or, I thought I did. But you—you're touching me."

"Well, there wouldn't be much point in me sticking around, otherwise."

The response made absolutely no sense, and then it made altogether too much sense, and Fraser started to tremble again. He anchored himself by sliding his arms around Ray's waist and wrapping his fingers in Ray's braces. Resting his cheek against Ray's stomach, he let out a deep sigh.

"Guess that answers that question," Ray said dryly, but he pressed Fraser closer.

"I missed you, Ray. God, I missed you so much."

"I know, Fraser. It's okay, I got you." Ray's hands were warm. "Geez, you're a stick. Did you run out of pemmican or something?"

Fraser laughed weakly against Ray's stomach. Ray was kind, and let Fraser rest there, his face absorbing Ray's warmth. Ray's body moved with his breath. He even smelled like himself, like cinnamon gum and hair gel—just as if he were alive.

And his fingers never stopped moving in Fraser's hair, sliding through it over and over, gentling him.

Fraser finally forced himself to get to his feet. He lost the touch of Ray's fingers in his hair, but he gained so much more seeing Ray's dear face, the downward tuck of his eyelids, and the fond expression curving his lips. Fraser's palm fit perfectly against the plane of Ray's cheek. "I don't understand. How can you be here? How can you—you're breathing, Ray."

"Well, you kind of have to breathe to talk, and you know how I love to talk." Ray's shoulder twitched in a shrug. "Does it matter? You want me here, don't you?"

"Yes! I want you. I want you."

Ray smiled suddenly, and Fraser heard his own words and winced.

But Ray just mirrored him with a hand to his cheek. He leaned closer, until his breath brushed against Fraser's lips.

"Yeah, you want me."

"Yes. I mean, I—"

Ray's lips touched his, a gentle, moist press. When he pulled away, Fraser flicked out his tongue and captured the taste of cinnamon.

"Ray, you kissed me."

Ray just smiled and licked his lips thoughtfully.

Dazed by his sudden flash of arousal, Fraser leaned forward for more, and Ray tilted his head and began kissing him in earnest, the parting of lips and slide of his tongue telegraphing intent, telegraphing desire in his low-hummed breath. It made the hair on the nape of Fraser's neck rise in shocked awareness. He couldn’t quite believe that Ray was here with him, playing carnal games, teasing him with wet kisses.

When it ended with a final rough stroke of Ray's tongue, Fraser found it in himself to ask selfishly, "What took you so long to come back to me?"

Ray rolled his eyes. "Some detective." He rapped Fraser on the forehead with a hard knuckle.

"Ray!"

"It was you, you lunkhead. You were pushing me out. Still pissed at me, I guess." Ray's eyes dropped. "Mad at me for leaving you."

 _Just like everyone else._ Fraser choked back the words, but Ray shook him a little.

"You think I don't get it? I would've been just as pissed. Always figured it would go down that way, actually. But, Jesus, getting through to you was like pushing through molasses. Everything was...sticky."

"I'm sorry, Ray." Incredible, but being brought to task by Ray was the most delightful thing he'd experienced in the past year. "I didn't mean to be difficult." His growing joy pushed him to wrap his arms around Ray once again.

Ray laughed a little. "Yeah, easy you ain't, Fraser."

"I did say I was sorry." And he was. "I'm terribly glad you're here." Fraser looked around. "Er, where is _here_ , exactly?"

The music had changed to "Moonlight Serenade," and Ray shifted a little, rocking them both until they were almost dancing. "This, my friend, is the Willowbrook Ballroom. Pretty nice, huh?"

"Willowbrook?"

"Yup. Best dance floor in Chicago."

"Chicago."

Ray tore his eyes away from the dance floor and leaned back to look at him. "Yeah. To tell you the truth, Frase," Ray let go of him to rub his hand over his head, "I didn't really like Canada that much. I'm sorry."

Fraser's breath caught before he could say, "That's quite all right, Ray."

"And if I go out that door right there I end up across the street from Nero's Pizza."

Fraser looked at the door, and his heart sank. "But you will come visit me? Sometimes?"

But he barely got the last word out, because Ray's tongue was in his mouth again. Ray kissed him hotly, gripping the back of his head to keep him close before easing back.

"Idiot. That's why I built this place. Now we just have to get the door put in. You'll have to do that on your side of the wall. Make a door to the wood closet."

"Closet."

"You're really into the repeating thing, aren't you?" Ray gave the back of his neck a little shake, and Fraser smiled.

"And you'll stay here?"

"Here? Nah. This is just where I teach the kids." Ray backed away from him and did a sideways dance step, all grace and smooth lines. The music changed accommodatingly to "Tuxedo Junction."

"Some of the kids are a little bitter. You know, the whole 'dying before they've had a chance to live' thing. So, I'm teaching them how to swing."

Ray danced back to him and pulled him into a turn. Fraser found himself moving in old, familiar steps, dancing as he'd learned under his grandmother's tutelage. Ray was smiling broadly, leading him through it.

It was unreal, but enjoyable for all of that, and when the song ended and Ray dipped him, Fraser laughed in delight.

"So, then, where will you stay?"

Ray shook his head and pulled him up and close. His thigh was pushing into Fraser's groin, and he could feel Ray's arousal, a hard, thick length against his leg. "I'll be staying in your bed, Fraser. And I'll make you your damned oatmeal and send you off in the mornings. But I gotta have something to do when you aren't around, don't I?"

"Yes, of course," Fraser said, but his breath was coming hard. Ray felt so real, so heavy and warm and alive, and it was more than Fraser deserved for failing him. Ray was so much more than he'd ever deserved.

Ray leaned forward. "Hey, c'mon. You're supposed to be happy."

"I kept you away—you said it."

"Yeah, you did." Ray gave him a cocky grin. "Guess it's a good thing I'm a stubborn son of a bitch."

"Yes."

"And that I love you so damned much."

 _Yes. Oh, yes._ Fraser kissed Ray then, as best he could with his breath so short, kissed him until Ray's slim body trembled a little within Fraser's arms.

"And you'll stay?" Fraser had to ask again, because the world could not be so kind.

"As long as you're around, Benton-buddy." Ray started dragging him toward the door. "Come on, let's go say hi to Dief. I found him some doughnuts. They're a little stale, but beggars can't be choosers."

Except, it seemed, sometimes they could.

///

Jamie had been living in the cabin about a month when she found the stack of old journals tucked behind the woodpile.

Her first instinct was to turn them over to the R.C.M.P. She was, after all, a Mountie, if only recently, and it was her duty to the late Benton Fraser to make sure his historical documents landed in the right hands.

Except it wouldn't hurt to read them first, would it? Just to confirm there was nothing of a personal nature within the journals that the famous Mountie wouldn't want released to the public?

She was later glad she did.

The first journal started as something of a personal memoir of Sergeant Fraser's adventures with his partner, the equally notorious Chicago detective, Ray Kowalski. It was apparent Sergeant Fraser cared deeply for his partner and missed him terribly after his death.

Sergeant Fraser's grief, perhaps, had twisted his mind. The writing turned decidedly odd. Strange messages, that he appeared to think were ghostly manifestations, appeared on the pages. And later, the Sergeant wrote of his delight in finding his partner, apparently undead and haunting his woodshed.

  
 _Our continuing adventures, continued, "Payback's a Bitch"_

_Today Ray once again saved my life. And it was a pleasure to me that this time he didn't have to risk his own in doing so._

_A convict, Harold Geiger, aged but still apparently hale enough to escape once again from prison, paid me a visit with the intent of tying up 'a loose end'. This time he didn't survive his attempt._

_He caught me unsuspecting in the kitchen with my hands full of ground venison. If Diefenbaker hadn't been out acting as stud to Deke Iverson's lead bitch I might've perhaps had more warning. As it was, and armed only with a handful of meat, I could do nothing but stare at him and wait for him to kill me._

_"I told you you'd be seeing me again, Constable," Geiger said, and raised his pistol._

_Ray suddenly materialized and grabbed my rifle from above the mantel. Geiger turned at the sound, and I saw his eyes suddenly widen at what must have appeared to him like an ownerless weapon aiming itself at him. I suggested to him he put down his pistol, but he gave a wild growl and turned back toward me with the clear intent to shoot._

_It was in that instant that Ray fired, and Geiger fell to the floor. The shot was lethally accurate._

_"Yeah, payback's a bitch," Ray said, staring down at him._

_That afternoon I had quite a moral dilemma in filling out my report. Of course, I couldn't say it was Ray who had saved me from almost certain death. On the other hand, I have never falsified a report before, and signing my name to it gave me a twinge of conscience that I'm sure Ray will enjoy teasing me about for a very long time._

_When I returned home, Ray made love to me as he never had before. Sly and bold in measures, a sultry smile on his kiss-smudged lips, he overcame me completely. He invaded every part of me, as if I were his Normandy and he my own personal Admiral Ramsay._

_"Anybody ever touch you here before?" he asked, and his fingers stroked me in an intimate place. He didn't wait for my gasped negative but proceeded to...well, the only proper phrase is "he ravished me," at the risk of sounding like one of Francesca's paperback romances._

_I thought I'd given everything I could to our lovemaking, but he proved me wrong yet again tonight. I'm exceedingly grateful he did, and cannot wait to return the favor._

_He is everything._

_  
(E.E.)_

_///_  
  
Two days later, Jamie finally finished the last journal and put it down with a sigh. It was dismaying to learn one of her heroes, the very man who had inspired her to join the R.C.M.P. in the first place, had been so tragically deluded by grief.

Obviously, the journals had to be destroyed. Unbalanced or not, he had served his country long and well before his retirement. The man's reputation demanded she do this one last service for him. And, truthfully, some of the more passionate entries, the ones that had made her blush, were also too personal to be shared. He had obviously loved his partner a great deal.

Jamie sat in front of the fire and dropped the journals into it one by one. The covers curled before igniting into blue flame, sparks rising from the burning pages. Absorbed in her work, she easily ignored the soft music that seemed to be coming from the woodshed.

_Ghosts, indeed._

........................  
2008.06.01


End file.
